Believer
by Balael-666
Summary: After childhood dreams are washed away and old friends are gone, adulthood's nasty grips try very hard to tie the heart down to law and unwanted order. Who but the dead can save a grown Alice from losing her beloved dreams? Set in real-life Enland. M end


**Believer**

Recommended Listening: "Houses" by Judy Collins and "Believer" by Kill Hannah

(last few paragraphs are MATURE)

* * *

The dream itself was familiar; a shiny, shimmering garden ripe with the perfection of an ageless, seamless glow trimmed and tidy and set with the imaginings of a child. Shrubbery shaped into clean-cut hedges, the maze which surrounded the little clearing exposed to the afternoon sunshine, streaming across the carpet of thick green grass dotted with wildflowers. The long table dressed with its spotless white linen cloth was just as she could remember, the impressive array of dishes all of the proper English tea variety, the cups steaming as though the warm liquid had just recently been poured. But for every exact, tiny little detail, there was something that took away from the scene she remembered with such a giddy, befriended splendor.

For at the edge of her vision, detaching from the wondrous, almost magical place, there was a heavy blur. A thin, veil of darkness sucked at the sides of the image, causing the lines to run together, bleeding and mixing as paint spread too thick across a canvas. It reminded her of confusion, of a feeling she knew quite well. And also loss, loneliness…despair. Somehow, though she couldn't remember the veil from before, she could understand that what she was seeing was not the garden tea-room she remembered, but a deteriorating mock of it, steadily falling into disarray. Had it been abandoned?

She knew the great, crawling garden, remembered admiring the tulips and chrysanthemums as they sang to her with their bright little voices, the birds that had watched her with curious, bespectacled eyes, romping as no proper young lady should have done through the maze of the hedges and getting hopelessly lost. There had been so much space; an entire world of wonder and make-believe. She remembered its oddities and its fresh, wide-eyed beauty. She remembered the funny little creatures all piping up with cheery greeting as she explored, always eager to give her a helping hand, paw, or claw. But above all, she remembered this place. This place of companionship and friendly, puzzling banter, of tea leaves and the smells of honey and cinnamon, furred ears and patient smiles, and doting ruby eyes.

_The shadows of your wings fall over my face—_

Instinctively, she looked up, as if she had been kneeling on the ground with her knees in the grass, eyes traveling up the length of a great, thin black splotch of darkness without face or form. The pale shape at the top, the head, one side of which was draped with dark, tilted to the side, and she squinted as if to give some manner of clarity to her vision. The effort failed, but despite the lack in sharpness, she knew, somehow, that the person standing over her was someone she recognized. Someone that was both dear and strange to her.

A hand was extended – a hand that seemed bizarrely clear amid the swiftly confounding vision of the garden, the green growth shadowing with grey while the skin of the long, finely-shaped limb reached for her.

_  
I can feel no air, I can find no peace._

She took it, gripping tightly for security, but while there was definite structure and weight behind it, solid and smooth-skinned, there was no warmth as there should have been. Startled, she withdrew; the movement sluggish, lethargic. Suddenly there was a spark of understanding, a symbolism that flew at her like a bird, feathers slapping at her cheeks, before it fluttered off, leaving her once again in a state of flustered puzzlement, gazing at the large, white-gloved hand with something akin to sadness engulfing her insides. All she could do was watch, unnerved, as the man knelt before her, still blurred by a thin layer of gossamer to distort his features.

The voice that spoke to her was soft, cordially friendly; yet warped with the words he chose to use. "Why is a raven like a writing desk?" Nothing by way of a reply would come, and she mouthed, wordless and mute like some dumb animal, blinking rapidly in attempt to dispel the haze covering his face. A soft roll of laughter, a humored, coaxing; "come, now, Alice. Why is a raven like a writing desk? You know the answer."

Still nothing, her mind blissfully blank, filled with nothing but chilly, warning thoughts about how fond she was of this stranger, how much she liked the way he spoke to her, the way he both befriended and instructed with the same exhale.

_Brides in black ribbons,__ witches in white..._

A riddle. It was a riddle, and she _did_ know the answer…didn't she? Perhaps that was nothing more than a passing fancy. Yet when she attempted to give her answer, she found herself just as mute as she had been before, throat locked and lungs sealed off – voiceless. How curious. She experimented, trying different methods of using her throat and mouth, only to end up with the very same result time after time.

The black edge to the world compressed and thickened, everything light and colored starting to grow dim and washed-out, faint and stale. It was starting to vanish, either her vision or the world itself, she couldn't be sure. Wondering if it was her lack of ability to speak that was causing it, and she unconsciously strained harder to fin her voice, nearly choking on the air that refused to be hammered into words.

She couldn't answer; yet—

"Very good! A raven is like a writing desk purely in the way they have nothing in common; but for a rare case when the desk is decorated with feathers, or the raven is made of wood. For, you see, were the raven to be wooden it might be just as cold."

Just as cold.

Just as cold as I am, now that you have seen fit to leave me for better things.

_  
Fly in through __windows; fly out through the night.  
_

The darkness flooded her like a tide. Frigid and empty as it was, it surrounded her like a shroud, wrapping her up in arms that gripped tightly around the body that couldn't really feel it. There was nothing gripping her, no touch, no sensation. There was just space. Empty, forgotten, alone…

Forsaken.

_  
Why do I think I'm dying sometimes in my dreams?_

*

**I will always be in your dreams, dear Alice; wherever you wish, whenever you choose. **

**I will be the keeper of the nighttime, where your heart takes you when you close your eyes.**

**I will be the key to the gardens you roamed as a child. **

**And should you ever need me, only call, and the door will open.**

*

"Alice?"

That annoying hum again. She did wish it would go away. There was never any peace in the house anymore, not since the news of the proposal had come. Odd, you would think an upcoming marriage would make everyone seem happier, but lately all anyone ever had to say was stressed and cramped and irritable; not enough time, bridesmaid dresses off by one shade, the caterers bill more than originally expected, where on earth were all the guests going to fit before the ceremony, this, that, and whatnot. A downright mess.

"…Alice!"

She started, blinking blue eyes with something like surprise to look up at the woman giving her such a pointed grimace. Fluttering briefly as she tried to recall what the subject of the discussion had been, she glanced about her for a clue, drawing a blank just in time to hear the woman give a long, exaggerated sigh, and she gave up. "I'm sorry, mother."

"Oh, Alice, for goodness' sake!" Mrs. Liddell chastised grumpily, "here I am trying to give you important information on your final dress fittings, and all you can do is stare off into space like a china doll. You've been doing this all week—it's as if you don't _want_ to get married!" Of course the very idea scandalized the matron of the house into silence, pressing a hand just beginning to grow wizened and frail to her chest and closing her eyes as if offended.

It was nothing new, so Alice was far from alarmed by her mother's show of hysterics. In truth, the news of the dress-fitting appointment that evening was nothing she didn't already know; mother was just being her usual easily-frazzled self, working herself into vapors over nothing. Most of it was due to the lack of enthusiasm her second-eldest daughter was showing toward her upcoming wedding, but Alice couldn't really see anything very grand about weddings other than the fluffed-up pretense of it all. To her, there was nothing terribly wondrous or interesting about her parents selling her off to a man she barely knew and found to be a bore. No, that was necessarily true; Reginald was a good man and quite mild-mannered, genuine, and even kind – a rare mix in a man during that day and age of arranged marriages and awful lack of choice.

Mostly Alice was just restless. She couldn't show it, of course, society didn't think well of a young woman from a reputable family traipsing around and exploring and getting her stockings ripped and her hair tangled and dirty. And quite often she wasn't even sure where the feeling of anxious claustrophobia came from, since it always appeared out of nowhere, with nothing traceable to have caused it – she just knew that the meek, servile post of a housewife was not what she wanted out of life. But what was there to do? Nearly eighteen, she was far too old now to keep forcing her aging father to feed and clothe her, and it was her duty as a daughter to find a means to support them as they grew older. So when Reginald Hargreaves, an _earl,_ of all things, had extended his proposal to Mr. Liddell at her début into social graces, what choice had she had but to accept? If for no other reason than to keep her flighty mother reasonably calm.

There was no getting around it, Lorina Liddell would have hurled herself into fits had her daughter not taken up a marriage with an earl. _A waste of a chance for a better life,_ she would have scolded, and probably would have disowned Alice without a second thought for her galling disappointment.

Truly, she didn't mind. She had always been something of a wild thing, a filly that couldn't quite be tamed all the way, and that hadn't much changed as she had grown older. But from a reckless, dizzying, explorative, perhaps even disruptive youth, she had learned how to better manage herself. Necessity and a sense of propriety inherited from her sweet-tempered father had given her a strict form of judgment and decision, and she had found no benefit from the dreams and imaginings of childhood – so she had given them up.

There hadn't been a choice.

All the same, as she was bustled off in the carriage with Edith to her dress fittings, her young sister's cheerful chatter serving as a pleasant shift from mother's droning woes about ungrateful offspring, she couldn't help but think almost wistfully back to days when she would sit under the trees in the park and dream the summers away. Everything had been simpler then, full of things to explore and adventures to be had, all kinds of ways to satisfy her natural gift of curiosity. She couldn't help but miss it, even despite knowing that the nostalgia did her no good. It only made the marriage, this step into adulthood and the final shackle to seal away her freedom, that much harder to bear.

But bear it she would. It was high time to grow up and out of silliness and foolish hopes. She was going to be married, someone's wife; it was time to get her head out of the clouds.

The dressmaker was ridiculously pricy; enough to make Alice and Edith both choke on air when they were bustled into a private fitting room by one of the seamstresses who prattled on at the two sisters about expenses and how fortunate a woman she was to have the finances of a man like Reginald Hargreaves to support her. As if Alice didn't already feel fortunate that her husband-to-be was wealthier than she'd even considered she might be offered, now she felt guilty for her mother's demanded designs and frills and frivolous tastes to eat away his money. Reginald had been graciously insistent that she purchase nothing but the best – because apparently doting shamelessly upon her with flowers and gifts of precious jewelry wasn't enough for him – and he had seemed satisfied with Lorina's commentary on the two gowns when reporting about them. But Alice still felt it was unnecessary. She liked her simple dresses, and she did _not_ like corsets. Unfortunately for her, corsets were almost a must in the every-day wardrobe of the upper-middle class.

Though the fitting itself went smoothly, the last remaining pins removed and the final stitches made, hems tucked and ruffles fixed, all the lingering unfinished details settled and sealed just in time. A fussy, finicky bustle had been put right since her last visit, details with white lace and pearl beads looped at sleeves and edges for the classic look so dear to the old hearts of Victorian England, just as her mother had ordered. The lady had found a pair of white gloves, upon which she had stitched a matching trim, and a veil which had been re-shaped and fashioned for the customer's head. All in all, she looked like a bride; and while the woman and her sister filled the little room with coos and compliments, it did nothing to ease the steady itch of dread and uncertainty slowly eating at her like a corrosive.

In total, the ordeal lasted a little roughly over an hour. Two generous boxes were handed over to Edith while Alice pinned her hat back into place and reacquired her gloves, the seamstress and her employer, a plump, sweet-faced older woman with a gentle kind of air about her, wishing her well for her wedding and bidding her a goodnight with spoken hopes of seeing her again after the ceremony. Though it shocked her more than a little, she realized that they were probably right. She would have to get all of her clothing tailored and trimmed like this – society would expect it. Strange, how the thought of conforming to such demands seemed to scald her. Stranger still to imagine that in less than two days, she would become Mrs. Reginald Hargreaves.

Was it natural to fleetingly wish that she had never grown out of those once-beloved daytime fantasies? And why did she feel like something – something lingering right under her nose – was so utterly wrong?

*

The curtsey swept graceful and modest, just as it was supposed to, her smile mild and polite as she thanked the guest who had extended his remark of congratulations. Deep blue satin rustled against the parlor floor, a dreamy composition of ruffles cascading from the bustle and window-parted layers of the skirt that fell from her waist. Soft lace sleeves whispered against her arms, the smooth sound a quiet comfort, something familiar in a room filled to the brim with tense, strict rules to bind the tongue and hand to order.

"Best wishes on you upcoming wedding, Miss Liddell."

"Thank you very much, Lord Wallace."

The laws kept so dearly to the hearts of the men and women of English high society were fussy and unforgiving. One slip would put a person in a negative, half-shamed light for lengths of time that would certainly seem purely ridiculous to anyone outside the tight little circles. Personally, Alice had neither love nor respect for them, but she knew as well as anyone where her boundaries lay, and knew better than most that keeping her mouth shut to the offense she took to having to parade around and simper like one of those dull-eyed porcelain dolls from the Orient. Her mother would never forgive her if she didn't behave. And she didn't want to bring disgrace to Reginald. The marriage itself was a dirge, dooming her to the life of parties and socials, hosting teas and balls for catering to this monster of pedigree and upturned noses. But it was the only choice she could see.

Mingling with the guests was tiresome work simply because of the sheer number of smiles she had to fake her way through. Her mother and older sister were completely within their element, regaling in the finery of the little gala put on by their family, and supported with the Hargreaves' bankbooks. Her father had concealed himself in a corner with a few comrades of like age and experience, not to mention taste, coveting his rights to solitude almost with a vengeance. She didn't know where her fiancé had gone off to; probably to locate more guests that hadn't yet been greeted.

In every gathering that would be labeled a success, dancing was always done before dinner. Meals were lengthy and filling, and left little room for any activity much more engaging than talk and discussion, or perhaps billiards for the men and sewing or reading for the women. Therefore, the Liddells had spent copious amounts of time rearranging their home to suit the needs of their party, situating the parlor for mingling, and keeping the wide parlor doors open to create an arched threshold leading into the ballroom created out of the primarily unused rooms at the back of the house. Light refreshments prettily arranged across dainty tables lined one of the walls, seating lining another to create an angle across from the connecting doorway, a charming spread, and well-managed within the brief time they had been given to arrange it. Only several hours into the event and dancers were already crowding the floor, stepping firmly in time to the orchestral melodies to accompany them.

Alice made her way slowly around the parlor, eyes flighty and body restless, hand fussing at the pearled choker embracing her throat. She would pause every few steps, smiling and engaging in the talk, sharing delight in the gossip of the small clumps of ladies dotting the room, smiling in a way that wasn't completely whole, some of the feeling missing from the eyes colored bluer than cornflowers. The calls of Margaret and Elizabeth, two friends her age from a time when everything had seemed simpler and adventures among reeds and tall pond-grass had filled the soul with life, had her turning back, waving with a trace of real happiness as she lifted her head to watch the pathways between bodies, not wanting to trod on anyone's foot or train.

"Oh, Alice," Elizabeth's sweet, honey-light voice reached her ears, "isn't it wonderful? Earl Hargreaves…I can hardly_ believe_ it!"

The smile, more real than the last few had been, was still etched across her lips when her eyes fell upon the men's shoulders and her steps slowed as if the motion was logged down by tepid water until she stopped altogether, frozen in her tracks. It wouldn't really make much sense, if she thought about it; she hadn't gotten a single glimpse of his face, nor any sign at all that would justify the feeling. But whether it was justified or not, no word or reasoning could change the eerie jolt of strange recognition that shivered through her spine. It touched her, a light weight that was heavier than a mere fleeting notion should have been, warm and tingling, almost like a physical contact – impossible from half a room's distance away.

He bore a figure much like any other nobleman did, still swathed in his cloak and top hat, but his shoulders were firm and set with a subtle pride that was unusually delicate. It didn't make sense to her, really, why this was so apparent from a mere catch of gaze at his back, and even stranger for the flutter in the pit of her stomach when she told herself that she couldn't possibly know him. And yet…

With a flare of motion and sound, the room surged back into focus. The concerned noise from Margaret echoed in force by the swarming chaos of voices mixed and intertwining around and among themselves. Still, she watched, unnerved and uncertain, as the stranger shifted to step forward, heading toward the exit through the open parlor doors with a decisive swish of coal black fabric and a peek of dark hair just visible beneath the brim of his hat. As he turned the corner, disappearing among the crowded, rhythmic sway of the ballroom, her breath literally hitched in the back of her throat, hard and lodged like a piece of meat swallowed the wrong way.

It couldn't be. It just wasn't possible.

…was it?

"Alice?" Margaret's hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face back toward the two girls now looking at her with something akin to worry. "Are you all right? Your face suddenly went whiter than a sheet—"

"You look like you've just seen a ghost."

She glanced away from where the man had disappeared, haste filling her veins like bile, pooling at the back of her throat, to look at Elizabeth. "Maybe I did…I—excuse me, please." Fleeing as swiftly as she dared, Alice wove through the gathered people, not even bothering to spare reassuring smiles for the people that stared after her with surprise to widen their eyes. Her steps pattered inaudibly across the floor, light and quick, directed toward the makeshift ballroom with whispered thoughts of childish, silly hopes to spur her forward. It couldn't be, he was dead, this was foolish; but she had to know. She _had_ to.

Curiosity had always been one of her worst faults, according to Lorina. The woman had come close to cursing the natural-born gift that seemed hell-bent on getting her daughter into trouble. Years of tired, repeated lectures and punishments had ground it to a subdued, wistful kind of perpetual itch trying to gain itself some freedom. Freedom had been impossible under her mother's unending, boundless scrutiny. So she had been forced to suppress all the vivid, anxious desires to explore, search, and satisfy that curiosity. She's gotten fairly good at it over the years. But tonight…it was as if all the work spent on driving the itch down into the dirt had been for absolutely nothing. It deafened her to the noise of the social hubbub, blinded her to the color and activity, and nearly numbed her to the impact that struck her as she collided straight into the sturdy structure of a man's chest.

Blinking up at Reginald Hargreaves was always something of a hard reminder. A bittersweet kind of connection from a woman without another option and a man settling for someone who neither bored him to tears nor was far from a cheer to dote on. He was a good-natured man, a far cry from the cold, arrogant, pig-headed sort one usually expected from nobility, and he came from old blood, old money. It always surprised her how he could talk with such a calm, level sort of fact, very down-to-earth, mildly voiced and even milder of temperament. But for all his good points, and for all the respect and fondness she had for him now, every time she saw him she felt something inside herself cringe. Something was always missing.

Reginald seemed surprised to see her, which wasn't odd, considering that she'd all but thrown herself into his path, not noticing he was there, and his hands caught her shoulders to steady her balance before automatically pulling away. It wasn't proper to have too much contact before being officially married. Touching more than discreetly appropriate gave birth to whisperings of scandal. Maybe that was part of his lost appeal to her – his willingness to serve the finicky demands of public right and wrong. "I'm sorry, dearest," he said, a hint of amusement flickering at the edge of his mellow tone, "what's the hurry?"

"I—" she faltered, uncertain as to how she should answer. "I thought I saw someone, and old friend, leaving without saying hello…" with a hurried half-smile, she bobbed her head. "Excuse me." Stepping around him, she passed by with a swish of fine satin and lace hemming to mark her way, masking the noise of her shoes against the floor.

Immediately upon entering the ballroom, she cast her eyes out for the mystery stranger with the cloak the color of soot, and was met only with a glimpse of the pitch-dark fabric whispering out of sight beyond the glass-plated door leading onto the terrace and side-garden. Outside. Leaving. Without even waiting a moment to examine whether or not doing so was prudent, or even wise, she started after him again, skirting the activity of the quick-step her guests were partaking in to approach the door, turning the latch and slipping out into the dark as if to seal herself away from the candle-sparked illumination from the house.

Out of its reach, the light from the windowpanes was a dulled, outraged yellow, spilling through the tinted glass out onto the street to paint a few feet of cobblestones a dirty, temporary gold. There was no stain upon the garden, beyond the terrace's reach and crawling down along the side of the house like a muffler, the roses budding, soon to bloom, the irises bright and cheerful for the copious amount of rain that had fallen the previous day. Yet she had eyes for none of it. skirts trying in vain to billow artfully around her legs as she moved, she trotted out from the terrace to the front, descending the steps to step out onto the quiet street, breath a light mist before her. Though it was spring, the dusk was chilly with a lingering snap of winter's ice to pink her cheeks and send her teeth to chattering. Still, she didn't stop, but plunged forward, following the way that led toward the Thames. Not that she knew he was headed for the river, but something had sent her that way, so on she went.

London at night was a lovely thing in a murky, foggy, haunting kind of way. The city itself was cold and brisk, a dark backdrop riddled with as much dirt as it had glamour, filth, exhaustion, and chock full of fear. There were reasons for it all, not many of which she had neglected to think about at least once in her so-far short life, but all of which seemed inconsequential at the moment. All that mattered was finding the truth behind the compulsive force driving her forward. Her attention was so focused that it didn't allow her sight of her danger until she was already neck-deep, farther from home than she realized, found upon a street she knew only vaguely, the bridge just entering her view through the soupy fog, and impossibly alone in deserted company.

Or, not quite alone.

Whitechapel had come to gather something of a sour reputation during the past few years; and perhaps if she had known exactly what her location was, she might have turned back and gone home. It was by course of error and a mild case of naivety, not to be confused for any purposeful damsel-in-distress episodes (were there such a thing?) – but the streets there were not as kind as they might have once been. Especially not to lone girls out wandering past sunset without an escort.

Alice's running step, hindered by the full, layered skirts laboriously hiked up just above her ankles, pattered to a stop as she paused to catch her bearings. Without the aid of motion to act as a lubricant, the cold seized her joints hard and fast, lips parted for the labor of breathing under the tight constriction of the corset crushing her ribs into her lungs. But as she gazed around at the dark city streets, abandoned and grimy, a light frost offering a crunching chill to accent each tentative step she took in the vague direction of the bridge – the only landmark she reasonably recognized. Where had he gone? He couldn't have just vanished into thin air…but, of course, in a place as large and dense with alleys and side-streets as London, he wouldn't exactly have to.

"Lost your way, luv?"

She jumped, startled by the voice that had called to her from the shadows at her right, turning on instinct to face the man who approached with an apologetic tip of his hat and a wan, considerate smile. The face was quite handsome, she could see; a smooth complexion, slightly-squared jaw, clean-shaven, rather youthful, and only just barely touched with a few careworn lines to frame his mouth. A lock of soft blond hair had somehow escaped from the slicked-back confinement of the rest, as she saw when he removed the top hat and smoothed it back as though anxious.

"A nice lass like yourself shouldn't be out wandering alone at night," he told her, tone stern with a flare of concern. "Are you lost?"

With a careful shake of her head she took a step backward, offering a cool, semi-fractured smile to ease the tenseness of her own shoulders. "Not at all, sir, though I thank you for the concern," spoken like a true lady. Joy. "I'm on my way home, actually. I should be on my way now; my husband's expecting me soon—" Unexpectedly, he took a few steps closer to her, completely disregarding the fact that she had put deliberate space between them. That was a clearly recognized sign that she wasn't pleased with his proximity. "—excuse me, sir?"

"No need to fear," he cooed, and the lulling tenor lilt of his voice seemed to take the fight from her limbs while her heart pounded, suddenly terrified by the piercing, attentive focus in his soft grey eyes. "I promise it won't hurt too much."

That was when she saw him pull the scalpel from his pocket, the slim, naked blade glinting under the far-off street-lamp. Just then, he didn't look so very handsome. The light in the eyes that had been so soft and mild was manic and crazed, enough to make her stagger backward when he advanced, a lust in his eyes that she didn't think she appreciated _at all._ Shadowed by the darkness and the fog of the night air off the Thames, she could feel her fear like a physical, living thing curled around her waist, squeezing and clutching, driving her back as much as it widened her eyes and locked her throat to choke her voiceless. Not that she would have been able to scream anyway…and even if she did, would anyone come to help her?

But the Ripper never touched her. He didn't have the time. Within three feet, staring down into her horrified blue eyes and smiling, almost sweetly, as he caressed his blade in anticipation with naked fingers, the blow came unexpected and hard enough to draw blood from the severely bruised skull. He dropped like a stone, hitting the ground hard enough to make the crack of the initial impact seem tame in comparison. Yet while she stared down at the grown man felled like a slaughtered animal at her feet, scalpel shining cold and metallic against the cobblestones, it took her a few quick breaths to realize that she had just been saved.

Wide blue eyes darted up to fix upon the newcomer; she couldn't see his face for the glare of the street-lamp right over his shoulder, but eerie recognition stuck her like a needlepoint as she understood that her rescuer was, in fact, the self-same man she had chased into those very streets. He probably didn't know that. While she couldn't get a clear reading on his features, she was able to spot identification in the form of the cane her carried, propped loosely against the crook of a bent arm. Judging by the make of it, he was either well-bred or wealthy – only the rich carried canes like that nowadays; silver filigree heads were rare even among high-society, let alone in the possession of some stranger on the street. Looking up a little further gave her only more fuel to add to that conclusion about the mystery man. His suit and cloak of fine, solid base sewn with a meld of silk, fine linen dress shirt, stylish silk tie, and sleek top hat; every item but the shirt, gloves, and ruby cufflinks a rich, raven black. It was the demure color of wealth, propriety, and modest self-empowerment; chosen, not dictated by society, no matter how imposing.

But…why had she known that? How could she know whether or not he dressed for fashion or for personal taste? Not quite sure why she did so, she blushed; cheeks stained a petal pink, invisible under the pitch of night, and grappled to gather her wits, meaning to thank him for his chivalry – not to mention daring. "Th—"

"It's foolish of you to be here," he cut her off before she even began; his voice hard and stony, despite the natural warmth that seemed permanently set there, accented by the grip of his pristine, white-gloved hand to the smooth structure of the cane propped at his elbow. "It might have been me that wanted to hurt you. Pretty ladies shouldn't follow strange men, unaccompanied, into such a secluded place. It's like asking to be killed, and I have better things to do than run around after a woman with air in her head."

The blush flamed. But instead of embarrassment, the fuel was outrage. With a suppressed gasp of offense, she snapped, "well, excuse me for intruding; I thought you were someone else."

He had turned to go; shoulders angled to the street and the bridge, but hesitated when her words struck him. "Who?" he questioned, and it was slightly softer, annoyance cooled to a calmer rumble. It was a mixture of two things; surprise and…was that a tinge of hope?

But she stuck up her nose, vexed. "It doesn't matter. _Clearly_ I was mistaken."

"Oh?" A subtle, provoking request for clarification.

"You're not who I thought you were."

There was a dry kind of amusement to lace his tone, a low ripple of humorless laughter that wasn't quite solid enough to shape itself into any real form. "How do you know, have you seen my face?"

"I don't need to see your face to know you aren't," she retorted, defensive, yet unsure why she was so adamant to prove herself to this stranger who was being so churlish and unfeeling. It was cold and she was shivering, not just outside, but inside, where he couldn't see or reach for with his hands – not that he tried. If the insides of a person's body could shiver, hers would have been. Not with cold, not with anything but an uncomfortable flutter, chilly, but warm enough to fluster the bearer because she couldn't understand what it was. Anxiety? But why was she nervous? It didn't seem like she had any reason to fear this man…yet that didn't explain the butterflies that shouldn't have existed. She shifted, squirming under the gaze she couldn't properly trace for the dark, wishing she could breathe without a corset to crush her ribs.

He either didn't notice her agitation or ignored it in favor of tilting his head, almost as though acknowledging that she had brought up a good point. Yet whether or not he agreed didn't seem to matter. "Time changes things," he murmured, softly enough to almost trick her into recognition for the second time, a low melody that hinted at laughter and joy long since treasured, and put aside. "Perhaps the face remained the same when whatever lives under it has soured with age; such as with yourself?"

Despite the rather poetic way he had questioned her…whatever it was he was accusing her of, Alice found herself nearly seething when she turned to shoot the shadow-wreathed face a livid glare. Could this man do anything but antagonize her? Everything that came out of his mouth was like a barb. Drawing herself up as tall as she could manage, shoulders stiff and chin lifted, she turned her bright, angry blue eyes on the face masked by silhouette and snapped, "speaking in riddles is not considered polite behavior," as primly and airily as her voice would allow.

He laughed then, loud enough almost to startle her, instigating a step backward from small feet encased in sapphire slippers, cold and rough against the cobblestones beneath them. "And refusing to humor a gentleman who was your guest is not the behavior of a lady," the chastisement was cool, no livelier than anything he had said before, biting at her as sharply as the blade of a penknife.

"You, sir," she snarled, bristling like a cat after its tail had been trodden on, "are no _gentleman._"

"Why—has womanhood made you just as stuffy and dull-eyed as the rest of those prissy, self-absorbed peahens?"

It hurt to hear that. She didn't know why, but it did; stung like poison to an open wound, salt and lemon juice searing through her skin, eating like acid. Perhaps it was because she had never wanted to be anything like the women he so accurately described, as she had once seen the adults she had avoided like the plague during her younger years. It hurt because it seemed so true; that she had slowly been turning into her mother, or maybe her older sister – already married with two children and expecting another, once so wild and carefree just like her, only to end up subdued and powdered and fitted into the shell society so adored because it was _proper._ The Alice she had been as a little girl would never have stood for her mother to bully her into marriage, nor would she have let circumstance discourage her from finding a way to make things work out in a positive way.

It hurt because he was right; and she didn't even know who he was. This perfect stranger off the street, whatever he had been doing in her house, had been able to see through her like a windowpane in less than a moment. Had she truly become so shallow? All this time she had blamed events and situation, had it been her own fault all along? No, not completely hers. There was one slice of circumstance that she couldn't let go completely. It was because of that one day, that one little detail, that things had turned out this way. Without it, her life would be very different now, and it wouldn't be frustration and sorrow seeping through her body like spilled liquid.

The drop landed right on her cheek, trailing along the curve like a tear to slide itself dry down her chin and along her neck. Another fell with a splat upon the side of her arm, a third dropping harmlessly to the ground a few feet away. Within another moment, it was raining, classic London weather, content to drench them both while the fog saturated and thickened around them like cloud. As if the sky was weeping…

He didn't seem to notice the weather, oblivious to the raindrops sliding down the shoulders of his cloak to run toward the ground in tiny iridescent rivers, shining and pearlescent. "How can you be certain I'm not this man come to bid you congratulations on your upcoming marriage?"

She closed her eyes tight against the throb of pain in her chest, agonized that she hadn't managed to vanquish it as she'd once thought. It had been so many years ago…yet it burned with the fury of a fresh wound. Falling dull from her tongue, heavy and disheartened, a reminder that made her whole body droop like a wilted flower, the words were so close to a whisper that he had to strain in order to hear them. "Because he's dead." For a moment, neither of them spoke, merely stood there, slowly getting drenched by the light downpour and smothered in a silence riddled with surprise and sadness.

It didn't take him long to recover before questioning her further, and though the sound of his honey voice appeared to have softened just the tiniest amount, it had the edge of skepticism to add a bitter aftertaste. "Really…" he mused, "and you saw the body?"

Suddenly she riled, temper sparked by the nonchalant indifference to her pain, to the hole in her chest. Why couldn't he see how hard she bled, still, years after the fact, an adult now instead of the child who had heard the news for herself. Was he really so blind? How dare he question her about this! "No," she hissed, "I heard it from his hysterical mother, crying her eyes out in our front hall!" Rage flushed her cheeks, a flash of small white teeth from between lightly-rouged lips, eyes narrowed to express just how insulted she was. "You have no right to question me! If I had a choice, you think I'd just marry the first man who asked just because he had money? I'm doing this because I have to—to support my parents, so I can stop being a burden to my father, because it's the only thing I _can_ do, now." She shook her head, disgusted, "you have no right to judge me. And it's none of your business anyway…you have been rude and uncivilized and I find your company appalls me." Gathering her skirts, she dipped him a mocking curtsey and snapped harshly, "good night."

That was when he moved, turning his body in a way that threw his silhouetted profile into sharp, vivid relief, and she froze, unable to breath for an instant as her eyes widened and her breath hitched solidly at the base of her throat. Yet again she quailed, uncertain; bewildered by the daze of disbelief toward the uncanny familiarity of the face she thought she saw. It was impossible to the point of being unreal, yet she had never been one to deny what she could see, no matter how strange or absurd. Did that mean it was true?

The minute her mouth dropped open, filled, fit to burst, with questions, she lost him. As if he had vanished off the face of the street, he was simply gone without leaving even a swish of fabric behind, and she whirled, panicked, to look for him. So, maybe it was impossible; but maybe, just maybe, he knew something she didn't about the death, the coma, the reason why no one had been able to locate the body of the strange, kind, older boy who had devoted so many of his afternoons to play with her, promised to be with her forever... He came out of nowhere, gripping her by the arm to pull her backward and into the firm structure of his chest, the sleek length of the fancy cane held at an angle to press her tightly in place, locked at the mercy of the stranger, possibly even more dangerous than the one lying cold and unconscious at the ground.

She struggled, causing no change but for the shift of a strong, white-gloved hand from elbow to wrist, restraining the reflexive attempt to flail backward and smack him across the face to free herself. Blue lace rustled against satin, steel boning straining tense and painful around her ribs as she gasped, "I—I'll scream…" The words barely scraped themselves into shape, her terror hindering the ability just as much as the memory of pain, clean and fresh and tearing at her breast, hindered the will to fight.

But his grip merely softened, easing against her wrist as if to show her that he meant her as much harm as a rose-petal. "There's no need to scream," he murmured, and for the first time, his voice was complete and utter tenderness, warm and soft and kindly, hitting her hard enough to have knocked her to her knees had she been left to stand on her own. "I'm already here." Gentle as could be, he squeezed her hand, fingers twining, ever so carefully, with hers – and, with a rush of realization, daring wonder, relief, and amazement, warmth seemed to turn her very bones to mush. It was the voice she remembered, the touch her subconscious recognized, recalled from across a span of years; impossible to believe…impossible to deny.

She had thought him dead, that day when his sobbing mother, beside herself with grief and hysteria to the point of nearly clawing herself to shreds, had come to the Liddell house to spread the news of her deceased son. Alice could barely remember him physically, just enough to put the vague shape of a face to the name; but she remembered the sound of the voice that had so often joined her childish games, cheery and patient and kind, and the hands that had brushed back her hair, wiped mud and dust from her sleeves and helped her sneak back inside to change clothes after a particularly successful romp. He had been her friend, one of few besides her sisters (who didn't count, as far as she was concerned), and her betrothed, even if she could only recall a faint whisper of that knowledge. He had been many things, until the accident that had locked him into a coma for over two years.

Virtually no memory remained of his time as a bedridden invalid, not in her mind. As a child, she had either fled from it, or had erased the existence of that awful, lonely time. Or perhaps she had simply not noticed, being a flighty, almost absentminded child – curiosity not withstanding. The report of his death had hit her hard enough to warp her entire world, shaking it solidly, if in a way she couldn't necessarily understand, and still didn't know how to label, in the form of dreams and nonsensical fantasies. His body had apparently gone missing shortly after the event was made official, suspicious, yet not unheard of in this newer, darker England. The funeral had been short, sad, and vague, confusing to the little girl who had watched with somber eyes – the sight of an empty casket bearing only an expensive bust portrait engraved into the mind of a wistful young woman. But none of it mattered anymore.

He was alive.

"It _is_ you," she whispered, hardly daring to let herself hope again, no matter how hard the light pressure of his palm to hers made her heart pound. The loosened grip allowed her to turn, to look at him, close enough to rest her eyes upon the face that sudden burned deep into her brain, reinforced by the memories that changed only to add the slightest traces of age to the expression. A youthful face still, as she remembered, but lacking the boyish edge of an adolescent, refined and honed, shaped by the years that had turned her from girl to woman. Everything from the soft curve of his mouth to the fine, carved structure of cheekbones and chin, the swath of dark hair peeking from where it was smoothed into hiding beneath the hat. And those eyes...beautiful rubies, warm and caring, an oddity that had frightened many but had drawn so much interest from his once tiny playmate. After so much time, so much change and growth, they took her breath away. "Razail—"

But the generous splurge of boundless happiness was only a fleeting brush of emotion, washed quickly under a tide of renewed sorrow laced with misunderstanding. A small, fair hand lifted to touch his pale cheek, thinned and sharply defined by age – he would be close to thirty now, she noted, and sobered even further upon realizing once again just how very much she had missed him. "Why didn't you tell me?" She murmured, faint and dazed, "why didn't you come?" The words died into a tremor of silence, broken only by the quiet patter of the rain clattering against ground and buildings, plopping heavy and wet onto skin and clothing. It was a thick quiet, nearly overbearing with a wild mix of emotions; relief, puzzlement, disbelief, awe, joy, and remembered sorrow so sharp that it scraped the chest raw. "I waited, but you never came…"

He stiffened, just slightly, body coiled tense beneath the slide of her hand against the plane of his chest. Yet when she ventured to look at him again, blue eyes hurt and sad, he was smiling, faintly, but surely. There were tiny, nearly indiscernible laugh lines at the edges of his eyes and at the corner of his mouth, but the marks of the slightest imperfections did no more than warm her, enhance the fondness fortified and made solid by the dream-world that suddenly flashed across her mind – back to its former, otherworldly splendor. This Razail was not the stand-in created out of a child's unconscious determination to fight off loss, absent and unreal, a perfect copy stuck at a halfway point between adolescence and adulthood with the energy and ethereal goodness of a little boy. Yet while one she had invented, the imitation had been so less than the original. While many would have said the secondary man, lodged in time and made of pure self-indulgent fantasy, had been purely hers, that wasn't actually the truth.

There was no man in the world like her Razail. And the real one was wholly and completely _hers._ The man who had somehow cheated death…if all she could have was his smile, it would be better even than the most vivid of dreams imaginable.

The tone he used was soft and silvery; if honey could be made of moonshine, it would have matched the sound of Razail's entreating voice. "You never called, my dear. I couldn't come unless you called," her lips curved with a bashful, teary smile accented by the quiet trill of his relieved sigh as he saw that she understood, "and I'm glad you did, otherwise I would have been forced to grieve the rest of my life away."

All she could do was give a burst of wet laughter, sweet and quiet, from her mouth, leaning into the touch of gloved hand that swiped mussed, sunshine blond bangs back from a rain-beaded forehead, smiling eyes gazing softly into her happy face. Bewilderment had never felt so good before, so light and airy and bubbly, like champagne that tasted sugary rather than dry, and tangy with life. It felt like a part of her had been revived from a deep state of sleep, questions running through her head as fervently as they would through that of a toddler's – but they were questions that needed no answering.

As much as she might have wanted to hear the story of how he had feigned death, or returned from it, against his family's knowledge, why he had hidden himself away, what he had been doing all those years…the adult in her knew that it didn't truly matter. Or perhaps it was the remnants of the little girl who needed no information. Maybe it was the childhood simplicity counteracting her cursed curiosity, partnered by relief, which drove inquiry after inquiry from her skull to leave a numbed, pleasant tingling. Her Razail had come back to her, air restored to staved lungs. Hardly anything mattered anymore. If he wanted her to, she could fly.

When he offered his arm, casting an annoyed glance heavenward, Alice wrapped both of hers around the strong column of his cloth-coated forearm. She had not a care for where he led her, the pair of them trotting briskly through the rain falling hard enough to smack wetly at their backs and faces, laughing and giggling in the gleeful throws of innocent joy in one another's company – gone missing for so long. His free arm curled around her shoulders, shielding her from the worst of the downpour with the generous expanse of his cloak to drape about her, dripping water to soak up her heavy skirts like a fabric sponge. She leaned into him, tucking herself into the space between arm and ribcage, reveling in the warmth from his body and the clean, fresh smell from his clothes; not caring a whit for the fact that the display they made would have been deemed beyond inappropriate by anyone who knew the story behind them.

After all, it was a blunt, horrific scandal for a due-to-be-married young woman to be seen embracing a man who was neither her fiancé nor her husband in a public place.

Scandalous didn't really even cover it.

They didn't really care.

The inn was a small, a room and board house for guests willing to pay through the nose. But reviews told that the prices asked were beyond worth the outcome of the stay, so Alice wasn't surprised with Razail's choice as he assisted her up the miniature flight of stairs and helped her shove her sopping satin train through the door into the cozy lobby. It wasn't long to wait for the hostess, a plump, kind-faced woman with bright eyes more youthful than her age might have entailed. She smiled at the couple with their soaked clothes and beaming smiles, and set them up with a nice, private room complete with single bed, table, twin oil lamps (lit upon their perusal), and a few chairs. The fireplace had been set long before, well-fed and filling the room with heat, and Alice let out a soft sigh of delight when the warm touched her face.

With a satisfied nod for the quarters, Razail inquired about a possible change of clothing for his companion; which the woman assured him could be procured within moments and proceeded to fuss about the upstairs before returning with a plain white chemise nightgown, clean and freshly pressed, and a pair of slightly too-big slippers. He pressed a generous tip into the hostess' hand, ordering a pot of hot tea and peeling off his gloves and hat as she bustled off to fetch it for him, his words of thanks in her ears.

The closing of the door brought Alice's attention back to him, watching him with soft sapphire eyes as he laid the fresh garments out across the end of the bed. She didn't want to move just yet, content to drink in the sight of him, solid and real, setting his hat and gloves atop the table and propping the heavy, decorative cane against the joint of bureau and wall. The shushing slide of the silk-lined cape across his shoulders as he snapped the clasp at his throat and shrugged it off was a melody of a whisper, pale fingers combing through slightly dampened bangs to smooth them back from his graceful face as he hung it up to dry. "You should get out of those wet clothes," he said quietly, the soft murmur of the older boy she had known, but tinted with the husky lilt of a man's voice. How strange it seemed, that even after all the time passed, she could still see him as the ever-patient playmate. He looked at her, eyes tender, and gave her a fine-lipped smile. "I'll wait in the hall until you've changed."

"Could you help me with this?" She gestured toward the corset holding her abdomen in a tight, restricted shape, the laces pulled nearly tight enough to squeeze her ribs into a new shape, her back turning toward him with a hopeful look over her shoulder. Wordlessly, he stepped up behind her and pulled the knot free, tugging some of the lacing loose enough to gain her some room (and breath) back. Then he left, closing the door behind him with a quiet snap. But there was no sound of footsteps leading away, merely the quiet creak of floorboards beneath a waiting weight, telling her that he hadn't gone far.

Wrestling herself out of the reception gown was more of a hassle than she might have liked, but it came off easily enough once she worked herself out of the bodice and sent the thing sliding down her legs to pool upon the floor like bulky liquid. She laid it carefully across the back of one sturdy wooden-backed chair situated close to the fire, hoping it would dry itself out enough at least to venture home…whenever that would be. The satin and lace monster taken care of, she gripped the waistband of her undergarments, sliding them down off her hips and thighs to nestle them beneath the discarded gown. It was a habitual action, half-forgetting that she wouldn't be alone in the room for however much longer they were going to stay, and, for some reason, not exactly minding very much. If her mother had been anywhere within the nearby vicinity, there would have been quite a bit of offended shrieking, but Alice was unconcerned. She knew Razail would never even so much as _look_ at her in a manner she didn't like.

Slipping the chemise over her bare body was something of a relief, soothing and soft, the material was fine, if a little on the simple side, and created a warm layer next to her skin. The laces along the neckline she did up with quick fingers, too numbed with giddiness to feel nervous or uncertain, and she padded silently across the room to open the door, seeing Razail turning toward her with a tray laden with tea and biscuits held in both hands. He shooed her back toward the fireplace, claiming that he would be damned before he let her catch her death of pneumonia under his watch, an order she obeyed with a small hiccough of giggling while he set down the tray and slid off his sleekly-tailored jacket.

Nothing about his clothing suggested anything out of the ordinary; no strangeness or oddity to give away any sense of magic or mystery, simply the dress of a regular, well brought up man drawing close to his thirtieth year. The crisp white of his shirt was stark and clean against the wallpaper as he fussed with the tea, pouring a cup and proceeding to doctor it in the fashion she had preferred since she had first started drinking the stuff – upon his urging, no less. He even looked as mild and refined he had before, something that seemed a wonder to her, after the years had changed her so dutifully into a shape that felt strange in conjunction with his company. And when he reached over to beckon her toward the hot, fresh liquid flavored with honey and cinnamon to ward off the chill of the icy rain (after taking a sip and deeming it acceptable), she could answer only with her stare, blue eyes fixed to the face she had never expected to see again.

"I just can't believe it's really you," she said softly, and it came out with the wavering uncertainty halfway between a plea and a celebration, unsure how to properly voice the mixture of emotions mulling around inside her. The adjustment was still a little on the difficult side.

Agreeing with a nod, Razail set the full cup gently down, smiling, slightly crookedly, as if he had found the sentiment somewhat amusing. The truth was, he seemed about as bewilderedly flustered by it as she was. Ruby eyes lowered to the plate, pale blue china piled with shortbread and raisin-cakes, and suddenly he seemed to go hard and stiff. As if his mood had shifted to a darker, dimmer one, the lines of his back and shoulders tensed, drawn tighter than a box-spring; sharp and stern like she couldn't ever remember seeing him before. It startled her, this edginess, in a way that chilled her to the bones like rain never could have. Yet before she could even harbor a sliver of a question to assert her concern, he had wheeled and gripped her by the arms to pull her near, looking into her face as though he was starving and she was the only source of nourishment he could find.

Though desperation seemed to leak from him in copious amounts, his touch was as tender as a lamb's breath. He had always been a good deal stronger than she was, but the unlikely possibility that he might injure her was at the very back of her mind, shoved aside by affection and worry as she peered up into the eyes she remembered so well, but never before with such driven conviction. More than the harshness, it was the proximity with which he held her, dwarfing her with height and solidity, which slowed her reaction time and heightened the speed of her curiously racing heart. He had never really been much of a slave to the expectations of commonly perceived right and wrong, but nor had he ever been quite this casual with her before.

"Alice," he began, and his honeyed tone was deeper than it had been before, low and taut with a subtle thread of urgency. "I can't let you that man."

That certainly wasn't what she had been expecting. Surprise and mild disappointment trickled down her spine like a cold fluid, spreading from shoulder-blades down to ribs and sides, head tilting slightly to the side in inquiry. Part of her wondered what she had missed when assessing her fiancé, another part – the part her mother had pounded into shape – strove to defend the man who was set to be her husband. "But Reginald is a good man. He's kind to me…how can—" Why was she defending him? Perhaps it was the truth, but he also had a way of making her feel just the tiniest bit inferior; not that it was his intent. Shouldn't she be leaping at the chance not to marry him? Or…was that a plea for help crawling along the tip of her tongue? Did she want to be saved? Did she dare even to hope?

Razail's expressive eyes seemed almost pained by the counterpoint, the soft lines at the corners of his mouth drawn and resentful of the misunderstanding. "No, Alice. I can't let you marry…_any_ man."

It was a full moment before she understood that he wasn't trying to attack the man himself, but stating his own feelings in a way that made it seem he was. Razail of the backwards speech; shouldn't she be used to it by now? Still, the meaning stuck in her brain like some kind of sticky, gummy substance to block the way for thought, her throat lodged and her heart stopped dead in its tracks. He couldn't _possibly_ have meant…

She barely recognized the renewed grip for what it was while he pulled her forward, bending slightly at the neck to bring his lips to hers, soft enough to drown her in sweetness. She had been kissed once before, by one of the city boys when she had been thirteen and had clobbered him with one of the rocks he had thrown at her, but a pre-adolescent girl being sloppily kissed by a little boy with a rock in his grubby fist couldn't possibly have appreciated it. That little incident had cost her a month's worth of playtime, and was simply no comparison to the warm, persistent pressure of the mouth molded so effortlessly, deliberately with her now.

The little girl she once had been had never seen her playmate in that way, but once growth took its toll and age introduced new things and unspoken ideas, the older Alice had discovered just how enamored she had been with her childhood friend. How long had she yearned for her departed playmate to return and sweep her off her feet? How many times had she dreamed of his face, his voice, his endearingly odd sense of humor to warm her spirit? How many times had she caught herself longing for his hands to warm her flesh, the way the pastors always said was sinful even under marriage? And now there he was, as real and passive as he always was, and showing more backbone than he ever had in front of her. She had never even entreated the thought that he might have felt the same for her.

He pulled back quickly, apologizing for his crude behavior and taking a step back, the look in his eyes making it quite clear that he was fretting over having ruined his goal by displaying too much fervor. Well, perhaps he might have for any real Victorian lady. But had he forgotten his little Alice and her stubborn, adventurous nature? She reached out for him, resting both hands flat against his chest and smiling up at him with a light, luminous glow to her cheeks, ready to remind him that he didn't have to play to society's silly rules with her.

"You're right," she told him, smoothing her palms down the fabric of his shirt, gaze soft upon the face etched with startled curiosity. "I can't be with Reginald. It wouldn't be fair, not when I love another man."

Razail's arms slipped around her waist, shifting almost as though with a sigh of relief and gratitude to cushion her against his sturdy torso, closing his eyes to relish the comb of her fingers through his hair. Her lips brushed his jaw, his chin, his cheeks, clean-shaven and smooth, milk-pale skin a gentle contrast to the rosy pink flush that tinted hers, her other hand curling around his nape and standing on her tiptoes, tucking herself into his firmer body to convey just how much she had missed him. "Marry me?" He whispered to her, tucking his face into the spill of her soft blond hair, still curled in slightly wilted ringlets down to her back.

She kissed him again, his lips warm against her mouth, tasting of salt from the tear that traced her cheek like the stroke of a fingertip, happiness swelling, fit to burst, within her chest. "Yes," she answered, nearly choking on her eagerness to keep him with her, forever and ever, never to lose him again. "Yes, yes—"

_I need you to believe in me._

The embrace tightened, crushing her tightly to his body, fingers wrapped in the tie knotted around his collar to wrench it free and sending it sailing to the floor like a coal-black ribbon, lost amid the hot press of the kiss that knocked the strength from her muscles and turned her knees to jelly. Her breath feathered against the lips that parted to drive her senses tingling and dazed with the stroke of a velveteen tongue. Eyelids fluttered and closed, slim female fingers clutching the shirtfront of the man she had hardly dared to dream of as he swung her into his arms and carried her across the tiny space of floor to lay her carefully across the cozy bed, smothering her in white-chocolate kisses and brushing flame across her skin from the friction of her nightgown.

Buttons slid easily from material, unveiling a sensual V of flesh to show her just how much the young man had grown as she had, white cotton falling from broadened shoulders with the aid of her hands to guide his arms to freedom. Heavy-lidded rubies fixed to her face, he tugged at the laces to her chemise, basking in her blush, filling his palms with the soft swell of breasts she would never again condemn for smaller size. Hem riding up to stomach, thighs gripping the hips of her greatest pain and greatest love, she fell into the oblivion that was pleasure, crying tears of joy that opened up the gateway to a world she remembered very well indeed. Flowers and trees and hedges bright and green, the sunshine streaming across the soft grass beneath her back, the bread-and-butterflies flitting lazily about the pansies that politely turned their petal-adorned heads away to give the passion-struck lovers privacy with a soft peal of giggling – all of it.

And most of all, her Razail, pale and perfect and smiling down at her, thin cheeks flushed and his eyes bright with life, loving her with all his mind, body, heart, and soul. Ruby shone with sapphire, the gold band around her finger glowing with the heat from their flesh, riding the tides of pleasure and healing pain. She wasn't quite sure how or when it had gotten there, just what it meant; the unspoken promise of unending eternity with the man she had always loved, since childhood, and that was worth more than all the wealth, knowledge, or words in the world could ever have given.

She would never need anything more.

_Until there's nothing left of us._

* * *

**Based on a friend's remix of the Alice in Wonderland story, using her characters (Razail is the Mad Hatter in the Wonderland dreamworld) as well as information from the real Alice Liddell's life. Hargreaves was not, I think, an earl, but I used it to make a point. **

**Also, I know the idea of rebelling against social law is unlikely for the Victorian era without cost, and it's slightly reminiscent of a bad romance novel. I have my reasons for using it. I also had a shameless self-fanservicing reason to include my personal interpretation of Jack the Ripper. Please don't ask, it's a long, LONG story that I don't really want to explain. Maybe I'll write it up someday. **

**I don't really need critiques on this, as it's finished for good now and has served its purpose, but I welcome any comments you have! :3**

**Thank you, hope you enjoyed!**


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